Harvesting Shadows: The True Story of a Haunting: The Forgotten

Miller

CHAPTERS

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my family, friends, and partners on this project who kept me sane when the shadows reached out to tell their tales. You’ve heard the stories. You know who you are.

APRIL’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I want to thank my Author Douglas Burchill. The dedication and months of research and interviews he put in to get this book to print is astonishing. Thank you for taking this journey and making it yours. To S.A. Brown my editor, thank you for fitting this in your schedule, and your generosity. To Shelby Wilson my Illustrator, for creating my vision. To Jeremy and Bill Spencer, for your professionalism and understanding and long hours of research to help us prove it was real. To my special friend Debi White, thank you for giving all of your energy into this house and helping all the souls with the healing process. Without your guidance we could have never ended the chapter, and opened the light for the children once more.

It is hard to fully express my gratitude towards the contributors of our Indiegogo campaign. Judith Burchill, Brenda Davis, Kristian Chickey, Diana Rosario, John Dyches, Dory Ferguson, Nicholas Kenney, David Barro, Shanna Stillman, Theresa Nelson, and anonymous contributors that helped get this book to print.

The Discovery Channel and New Dominion Pictures.

To my Mother, thank you for always believing in me.

To my boys Nathan and Shane, the light of my world.

Last but not least, to Matthew my soul mate, my love and my forever protector.

DARK RAGE

Salt Lake City, Utah. 2003.

He stood there, holding the floor lamp in one hand like a primal spear. It was the only light in the long hallway that led to the front door, and cast stark shadows about him. The meager glow of the sixty-watt bulb illuminated David, stripped down to his jeans and work boots, black smears of paint across his body and face like some primitive hunter. He didn’t seem to feel the winter air creeping in through the windows. His staring, whisky-reddened eyes surveyed the wall before him as he ran his other hand, still wet with glossy black, through his short hair, pulling it out into wild spikes.

He looked down at the quart of paint on its side, spilled and seeping into the floorboards. He looked back at the huge scrawl of sprawling black letters he had rubbed onto the pristine white wall.

Is this what you wanted? he asked. Hm?

The letters dribbled down the wall. The words trailed silently. David lifted his arms and motioned about, the lamp spinning a black and white kaleidoscope of light and shadow around him.

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?! he roared in anger. Silence.

He dropped the lamp to his side. His head hung low as he closed his eyes. He smirked and chuckled once to himself.

You’re very clever, he murmured. He whipped the extension cord attached to the lamp behind him to clear the way. David wondered for a moment if the neighbors had noticed the two one-hundred-foot extension cords snaking their way between the two properties for the last week.

He went into the living room and sat down against the wall, picking up the bottle waiting for him.

Well, he raised the bottle. You win. I can’t even afford electricity anymore.

He took a long pull from the half-empty bottle. Then he set the lamp upright next to him, sitting in the soft glow surrounded by darkness.

And you killed my kid, he nodded with a grim smile. Put my wife in the hospital. My daughter won’t talk to me.

David took another drink and leaned his head against the neck of the whiskey bottle. He gasped at the burn of the alcohol and the memories.

You ruined us, he mused and looked up into the dark. I just want to know why? What did we do? Huh? It’s okay. It’s just me, now. You can tell me.

Silence answered him. And then he felt the heaviness that seemed to mass out in the hallway, the unnatural infinite stillness of something listening.

David leaned over on the arm still holding the bottle and pointed the lamp toward the hall. Nothing but shadows. Always the shadows.

You out there? he called. No point trying to scare me now. There’s nothing left. Come on in and we’ll talk.

David sat alone in the silence. He smirked to himself. He was tired of living on the edge of sanity and unreality. He was exhausted, burnt, broken. He was done.

You know what I think? he asked the dark loudly. I think you’re nothing but a coward. You’re scared. That the problem? He sensed a trembling in the dark, a growing rage vibrating in the air, emanating into the room where he sat.

You’re afraid someone will find out the truth about you, he drawled with a smile.

BOOM! The immense sound erupted far back in the hall toward the rear of the house.

A coward.

BOOM! Closer now, echoing through the empty house.

A weak… David slowly got to his feet, swaying, clutching the bottle and the lamp.

BOOM! Closer still.

Perverted…

BOOM! Right outside in the hallway, shaking the frames of the windows and doors.

Coward.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The thunderous strikes reverberated across the walls of the living room, ricocheting all around David as he spun with a gleeful, insane grin on his face. He half crouched as the explosions traveled up across the ceiling and rattled the window panes.

He tracked the sound until it stopped abruptly, the grin fading from his face as he stared up, wide-eyed, at the corner where the ceiling and walls met. His mouth dropped in awe and he raised the lamp, pointing it accusingly.

Oh! I see you! he whispered. To anyone peering into the window at that moment, they would have witnessed a madman talking to an empty room.

I see you, he repeated. You don’t scare me anymore.

David dropped the lamp and slowly backed into the hall, never taking his eyes off the corner. He pressed his hand into the pool of black paint on the floor and held it dripping before him.

You’re the one that should be scared, though, he said, nodding. Do you want to know why, asshole? Huh? He took a step toward the corner.

I’ve been doing some research. Yeah. Some studying, you might say. And I know how to make you weak, how to lock you up so you can’t hurt anyone else. Ever again. And with that he fled into the darkened hallway.

Come on! Chase me! he shrieked madly. He navigated the path through memory, careening into the walls in the hallway, stumbling up the stairs to the second floor in the dark.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sound had started again, quickly gaining, shuddering along the banister behind him. He caught a glimpse of movement in the dark on the decorative balcony over the stairs.

Too late! he yelled. You’re too late! He staggered the rest of the way to the master bedroom.

He bounced onto the stripped queen-sized bed, the last remaining piece of furniture in the room. There, he stood upright, bracing himself against the ceiling with one hand, while the other traced madly, flinging black paint against the walls. Just enough light shone through the window from the street outside for him to complete the physical part of his work.

The bedroom door banged violently against the wall as something entered the room.

You know what I’m doing, don’t you? David growled. "Or maybe you don’t. Doesn’t matter. You’ll find out a

Whoa! Not bad! Hold on. I’m almost done!

With a great squeal and rending of metal and wood, the bed crumpled around him as if squeezed by an invisible giant fist. The mattress folded in on itself, flinging David to the floor where he laid panting, sweat mixing with paint and blood from where he had grated himself against the walls in the dark.

He stared up at the symbol he had left on the ceiling of the dim room—a smeared figure eight. The air was thick, pensive.

Go ahead, he said quietly. Kill me. Let everyone see what’s written on the wall downstairs.

The heaviness slowly retreated out of the room, but remained just outside.

Oh. David propped himself up on an elbow. So, you do know what’s going on. You’ve got some idea what that is, anyway. He nodded at the figure eight.

Then you know what happens next.

The dark was a tangible thing around David as he stood in the hall for a moment. He felt that he could reach out and drag his hands through it, as if it were a black mist that might part. He felt the malevolence as it glared back at him. He smirked as he backed toward the sweeping staircase and the strange balcony above it that lead to nowhere, sealed off long ago by some previous owner.

You’re wondering if I have the balls to do it, aren’t you? he asked the shadows.

He reached the top of the staircase. The darkness seemed to creep across the wall to take up a better vantage on the isolated balcony. David’s eyes traced the barely perceptible movement of the shadow in the dark, the only light in the house coming from the lamp lying on the floor between the hall and the living room.

You’re wondering how I’m going to do it, David mused. Can’t take a chance pushing me down the stairs now, right? What would happen? He raised his hand smeared with the black paint.

BOOM! The sound emanated from the floor below, echoing through the open air of the staircase.

Too late for that now, David said as he turned and started down the stairs.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sound seemed to come from the hallway downstairs. David picked up his pace, taking the stairs two at a time in the dark, unsure of what the angry presence might try to do. He had to get to his duffle bag in the living room. Then this would all end.

As David took the last two steps and hit the floor, the front door burst inward, the cold air of December blasting down the hallway. Two bright, white lights pierced the dark, slicing along the walls and pegging him where he stood. Stunned by the light, he raised a hand, trying to make out what waited beyond.

Mr. Harris? A voice on the other side of the light called out. A human voice.

David lowered his hand. He could now make out the winter jackets of the Salt Lake City Police, silver badges glinting in the light reflected from their flashlights. There were two of them—one in front fixing David with his light, hand tentatively brushing the grip of his sidearm, the other slightly behind the first. His flashlight flickered toward the writing on the hallway wall for a moment, then back to David.

David Harris? The voice of the officer in front repeated.

Yes, David said. A vague feeling of defeat began to wash over him.

Sir, can you put your hands where we can see them?

David sighed, raised his hands and leaned against the wall. As the officer frisked him, he glanced up the stairs. A deeper shadow seemed to shrink from the light, watching, gloating.

Ok, Mr. Harris, The officer stepped back, taking up the dominant position, hands hooked into his belt. You can put your hands down.

Well, officer, David turned slowly and leaned against the wall. To what do I owe this visit?

Why don’t you come out to the car, Mr. Harris? It’s warm in there and we can talk.

Mind if I get a jacket? David rasped.

Go ahead.

David strode into the living room and opened his duffle bag. He paused as he grabbed the denim jacket stuffed inside. Just below it, he knew, down at the bottom….

Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.

The officers followed David outside and to the cruiser parked on the street. Inside, they introduced themselves as Sheffield and Cortez. David nodded from behind the passenger cage in the back seat—a strange experience.

You’re not under arrest, Sheffield said. But we’ve been asked to talk to you. By the new owner of the house.

The what? David asked.

Cortez cleared his throat. Mr. Harris, have spoken to your wife recently?

David shook his head. No. We’re…separated. She won’t talk to me anymore.

Sheffield nodded. So, you’re not aware that she was forced to sell the house in a state of distress, then?

No, David said, his world slipping away beneath him. He now realized that the house, the evil in it, the pain it had caused, were his last tenuous links to a life he once had. A life with love and hope and plans for the future in it. Dreams of children to raise, a partner to grow old with. A life with a job, success, the respect of coworkers. All that had been blocked out for the longest time by pursuing shadows in the dark, screaming at the house at 3a.m., watching for the things in the corner of his eye. Watching them watch him.

The house had taken his only son, his marriage and family, and now, his revenge. He glanced out the window of the cruiser and thought he caught a flicker of movement in the front bay window facing the street.

Technically, you’re trespassing, now, Cortez explained. You have to leave. You got somewhere to go?

David shook his head.

It’s New Year’s Eve, Sheffield said. Nobody you can call? Someplace you want us to drop you off?

New Year’s? David grinned wryly. What time is it?

Quarter to eleven.

David looked at the paint on his hand for a moment, and then he looked back up at the officers.

I suppose any old motel would be fine for tonight, he said. I just have to get my bag.

I’ll come with you, Sheffield said.

As they trudged up the long sidewalk, David took in the house in the dark. The old Victorian squatted on the corner of the block, the raised front porch set off to the left, the large bay window of the living room taking up most of the right side of the house.

David thought it would have been a perfect house. For someone. Some time.

He looked over to the left. Mrs. Delacroix stood on her front porch and raised a tentative hand, then seemed to think better of it and simply stared. David waved and nodded back to her.

Everything is ok, Mrs. D, he lied. He stepped inside and made his way to the living room, righting the lamp and unplugging it. I think she knows I ran an extension cord over to her house, he mused out loud.

Sheffield seemed not to hear him. He stood in the hallway, his flashlight beam illuminating the black scrawl that had dried on the white paint. David picked up his bag, quickly zippering it shut, hiding the remaining contents.

Do I have to worry about this? Sheffield asked, nodding at the writing.

No, David waved his hand and shook his head. I’ll pay for any damages.

That’s not what I mean, Sheffield flicked his light to the floor between them. Do I have to worry about what it says?

Oh, hell, David chuckled. No. It was the whiskey talking. Writing, I mean. I was drunk. Things haven’t been real great. You know what I mean.

Sure, Sheffield nodded. You ready?

David took one last glance into the darkness that seemed to fill the end of the hallway.

Yeah, he said. Hey, can you drop me at the Motel 6 up in Woods Cross? he asked.

Sure thing.

He checked his watch as they drove. 11:30. David looked out the window as the mountains and the night sky scrolled past.

He waved and watched them drive away after they had made sure he was checked into the motel for the night. 11:45. Inside his room, he sat on his bed and opened the duffle bag next to him.

David reached in and drew out the matte black 9mm. His hands didn’t even tremble. Some instinct told him to use his right hand, the one still stained with the black paint. That was how it would work, but why? Was it the connections he had made in his mind? Some ritual buried in the past, whispered of in online paranormal forums? Or was it just willpower, the desire for a particular outcome?

He thought about the words on the wall, the black figure eight on the ceiling. He checked the time. 11:59, December 31, 2003. New Year’s Eve. Everything about to be reborn one more time, a wave of excitement and hope washing over the world in a twenty-four hour swath as the Earth spun silently in space.

Yes, he realized. That was how it would work. He watched the seconds tick away on his watch and raised the pistol to his temple. The smell of the paint on his hand crept into his nostrils. He thought he would be more scared than this. He was just tired, though. Tired, and ready to teach the nightmare in that house a lesson for once.

The seconds ticked away. 12:00 a.m., January 1st, 2004. Salt Lake City roared as one with the jubilation of the coming year, the closing of the previous. No one heard the gunshot, or if they did, they just assumed it was fireworks that night.

In the darkened and empty house in the Avenues, the words David had scrawled dried like blood on the once pristine white wall.

This house murdered me….

ON THE EDGE

Sandy, Utah. 1991

April droned along with the rest of the congregation, dragging through the final notes of How Great Thou Art. She sighed inwardly as Bishop Torrence took to the pulpit, and lowered her head with the rest of the Brothers and Sisters as the sacrament was blessed.

The silver trays of bread and water were passed silently among the rows. April chanced a quick glance up to the front of the church. Bishop Torrence watched the slow passage of the sacrament, his eyes following the trays. The last thing April wanted was to be called into his office for not accepting the sacrament. She gritted her teeth and drank the water, chewed down the bread, and passed the trays on.

If nothing else, the sacrament meant that it was almost ten o’clock. Almost time to get out of here, not that she’d want even her parents or sister seated next to her to know her plans, or what she had been doing the last few Sundays while everyone else went to Sunday school. April turned and stared at her sister Shanna, eight years older than her with a family of her own already. Shanna returned her gaze and smiled briefly.

Her mind clouded as a few members went to the pulpit to give their readings and talks. She was almost numb by the time the closing hymn ended and the final prayer began. At fourteen, she had found her tolerance for three-hour church meetings dwindling. Especially when Erica was waiting.

She thought about Erica as she and the others shuffled out into the chapel hallway. Erica who wasn’t Mormon, who was everything April couldn’t be. Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

We’ll see you after Sunday school, ok? She squeezed April’s shoulder.

April turned to her mother. Her father was already gone without a word, heading for the scripture class. April saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes as she watched Arthur walk away. Pam was too proud to say anything, though. For years, the woman had been a nurse recruiter for the hospital in Sandy, and not one to project any kind of weakness or deign to respond to the gossip that flowed around town.

April nodded. Sure, Mom. See you.

For a moment, she watched Shanna put her hand on Pam’s shoulder silently as they both watched Arthur distance himself. Then they turned and walked together to the women’s class. Pam always seemed so terribly alone, isolated from her husband. April felt a pang of pity, and then turned and headed out the chapel doors with a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching.

Two hours with Erica, she thought as she headed down the sidewalk. Cars passed by on the street, people walked enjoying another sunny Sunday morning. Everything seemed right, but to April the idyllic scene represented a looming lifetime sentence.

Closer inspection might reveal everyone dressed in their Sunday best. The women wore long skirts and dresses, the men in shirts and ties. All of the men, and all of the women. There was virtually no deviation. And that’s what grated on April the most.

She didn’t want to be subservient to a man, as she was told she was destined to be. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life knowing the same people, going to the same places, always plugged into a neat and tidy church unit no matter where she went or what she did.

Two hours with Erica, she thought again as she rounded the corner, passing the street signs, barely noticing the chapel fading in the distance. Two hours of forbidden thrills and an adolescence denied her by the Church. An adolescence that every other teenager in the country must be experiencing. Why the hell not her? Who were they to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? She wasn’t even allowed to drink soda! What the hell?

April smirked at the profanity in her head. What would Bishop Torrence think of that? And who really cared?

Erica’s house was just ahead, nestled neatly amongst the rest of the cookie-cutter neighborhood. They were all two-stories with neat lawns, driveways with the ubiquitous minivan, a pool in the back yard.

Erica was different, though. She and her mother weren’t Mormons. Her mother worked the night shift, barely having enough time to check in on Erica in the morning and get her to school. Erica had a lot of time to herself. Erica had freedom. Erica had a lot of things.

The front door was unlocked, like it always was. April knocked anyway and poked her head in.

Erica? Hello?

Up here! Erica called from her bedroom on the second floor. The house only showed partial signs of habitation. It was that kind of clean that comes from no one ever being home, rather than the diligence of the owner. There were only the hubs of life there—the kitchen, the living room, Erica and her mother’s bedrooms—that ever looked like someone lived in them.

As April climbed the carpeted stairs, the familiar sweet tang of clove cigarettes drifted down along with the pounding punk anthems of Crass. She leapt up the stairs and down the hall to Erica’s room.

Even though the window was open and a fan blowing, the haze of smoke hung in the air. Erica sat watching Ren and Stimpy, reclined in an oversized beanbag, exhaling scented plumes while a black Djarum smoldered between her fingers. She turned to April with reddened eyes and smiled, her blonde hair in a page cut, her orange Dead Kennedys t-shirt longing for better days.

Damn, April grinned. Drunk already?

It’s Sunday, Erica explained, giggling. She held the tin of Djarums out to April. Breakfast of champions.

April sat on the floor next to her and took a clove. Erica slid a half-empty can of Old Milwaukee over to her.

You got some guts, Erica mused. April sipped from the can.

I’m not staying here, she said.

Did your parents find out you’ve been skipping Sunday School or whatever?

No. I mean here. In this town, April replied. I can’t. This is killing me.

You’re fourteen, Erica said and took a sip of beer. Where are you gonna go?

April was silent. Where would she go? What could she do? Everything had been laid out for her.

The hell with it, she said. What are we watching? She tried to turn her attention to the TV, but the music from Erica’s stereo was too loud. Almost as if reading her mind, Erica turned it down and turned to her with a serious stare.

You want to? She leaned in, her eyebrows raised.

What?

Erica flicked her gaze toward the closet.

I don’t know, April said. That thing freaks me out. We’re not supposed to.

Not supposed to? You’re a little beyond that. Smoking cigs and drinking beer. Come on.

Seriously, April glanced toward the closed closet door. It’s weird.

Erica sighed and got up. She trudged to the closet and opened the door. It’s a toy, April. It’s made by Parker Brothers, for shit sake.

Fine.

You’re such a Mormon. Here it is! Erica pulled the oblong box from the top shelf of the overstuffed closet and dropped it on the floor in front of April. April stared at the top of the box as Erica turned off the TV, the stereo, and pulled the room-darkening curtains across her windows.

Ouija, the box read. The top of the box displayed two pairs of hands placed gently on a plastic planchette resting in the middle of a board printed with Victorian numbers and letters. Mystifying Oracle.

Through the haze of smoke and alcohol, April lifted the lid. That dark thrill she always felt coursed through her. The faint sunlight crept around the curtains, letting in just enough light to see by. Inside the box, the planchette rested upside down in the corner, the board waiting patiently beneath.

Erica sat across the box from April and lit four candles setting them around the pair. The gloom dwindled, replaced by a warm ambler glow holding the dark at bay. April took the board and planchette out and set the empty box aside. She set the Ouija board between herself and Erica.

Should we see if anybody’s home? Erica grinned.

Yeah, April smirked. Mormon my ass.

The girls placed their hands on the little plastic slab, its clear eye in the middle of its heart-shaped body unblinking. Both girls sat staring at each other, silently daring the other to speak first.

Is anybody there? Erica asked out loud. Both girls waited, trading glances between each other and the board. Nothing. Must be sleeping in.

April cleared her throat. Is anyone willing to speak to us? Again, the board remained silent.

April started, her breath caught in her throat as the planchette started to slide, ever so slowly, beneath their fingertips.

Are you doing that? Erica asked loudly.

No! Are you? April replied. It was always the same when it moved, always the same sense of unreality that set them questioning each other and left them giggling with the awkward impossibility of the planchette moved by unseen hands.

The felt-covered plastic legs of the planchette slid across the board with agonizing slowness and spelled out a word. Y-E-S

You know ‘Yes’ is already spelled out up there in the corner, Erica laughed. You don’t have to spell it out. She looked up at April who gazed back shaking her head and mouthing No. Erica’s grin faded. The board was still.

Ahem, April coughed and addressed the board again. So, we’ve been talking to you for a while now. Do you remember us?

The planchette slid. A-P-R-I-L-E-R-I-C-A

Holy shit, Erica murmured. You’re really, really not doing that, April?

No. April’s hand crept out and took hold of the can of beer. She took a respectable swig before putting her hand back on the planchette.

What’s your name? Erica asked the board cautiously.

I-A-M-W-I-L-L

Iamwill? Erica raised an eyebrow. Is that some kind of spirit name?

He said, ‘I am Will.’ Seriously, Erica, April laughed.

Ok, Will, Erica frowned ignoring April’s laughter. Tell me this: Does Bobby Jameson like me?

N-O

Ask him something serious, April urged.

You ask it something serious! Thing can’t even use the word ‘No’ when it’s already printed on the board!

Fine. April turned her attention back to Will. When will I die?

Oh, don’t do that, Erica moaned.

2-0-0-7.

How? April pressed.

This is a terrible idea, Erica whimpered ecstatically.

C-R-A-S-H-F-I-R-E

April stared wide-eyed at the board and took her hands off the planchette. Whoa… Erica handed her a half-full beer without saying a word. April drank deeply.

Now you, she said, setting down the empty can.

No way. No effing way! Erica shook her head and grabbed for a cigarette.

And that’s how the Sunday’s went by, April sneaking back into the chapel at noon, teeth brushed and aired out. If her mother ever noticed, she didn’t say anything. If her father ever noticed, he didn’t care enough to say.

Then there were the weekdays at Alta High School, endured for the sake of Erica and the outlet she provided for April. Week after week, sitting in class with the same